


Seaweed

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1949949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kira sinks into a bath during the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seaweed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The worst part is not knowing who’s _real_. She crossed that bridge a long time ago, but it’s the sort of thing that doesn’t really end, just goes on and on and she’s been walking so long that it’s close enough. A year ago, she trembled when she did this; well, trembled in the _Kira_ way. Pushed through with bitter determination and grit teeth. She never wants to be caught naked, caught without her shoes, without a phaser: unable to run or fight. 

But she has to get clean one way or another, and when the sonic showers break down, she’s the only one that doesn’t grumble. Are they all Changelings, not really knowing how to _act_ like she does: a real, flesh and blood person? No, they just didn’t grow up in refugee camps. She went months without bathing. She used rivers and streams and the remnants of puddles. The crudely cut rectangle in the back of her quarters will do just fine, and Nerys turns the tap, half expecting sludge to pour out instead of water. 

Just water. Regular, clear water—not what they look like—but can they become that, too? They can become anything. She’s sure Odo’s been a drink before. Spying on Quark. Back when shapeshifting was an amusing aside and not a life or death _destroy this whole quadrant_ problem.

She turns off the tap, the pipe still hot, and she pushes out of her uniform, too tired to be determined. She hates it no less; she’s just exhausted. She kicks out of her shoes and leaves her earring on—even if she can’t run or fight, it’s something she won’t die without—and she steps her toes into the water. Scalding hot, good. The Cardassians always kept everything too hot, built everything too hot, but she needs the heat to burn her sores away, and she slinks down into it until she’s disappeared to her chin. 

She slumps and ruins her posture and figures Bashir’ll have more of her to patch up anyway. The water is borderline painful and not as soothing as it used to be. It’s not a luxury anymore so much as something she puts off too often. The soap sits conspicuously in its dispenser, but Nerys isn’t ready for the work yet. 

Nerys stares at her naked body through the murky water, the dim quarters hardly giving any reflection. There aren’t any windows. She sinks past her chin and lets the brim lap at her bottom lip, and for one brief, useless moment, she wonders what it’d be like to _drown._ (Not for the first time, but the others were all a long time ago.) 

She wouldn’t do it, of course. Been through way worse than this, she tells herself; watched her family and friends die or worse, but then, now she doesn’t even _know_ who’s _really_ around her—maybe she’s all alone—and Odo used to be the only one she could trust, but now she doesn’t know if she even has _him_ anymore, and she doesn’t care if they’re _his_ family; that simpering stopped when the slaughter started. 

Has Odo ever been in a bath? Could he meld with it, dissipate into it, or just push the water aside? Nerys entertains the thought of not being solid—of slinking into something else. She hikes her shoulders out of the water and lets them drip in the steam, throwing them over the blunt edges, and she thinks of them like tentacles, like being an octopus, coming out of herself and rolling over everything and not feeling so very trapped in her own damn skin. 

What a stupid thing to think. She laughs at herself, but it doesn’t sound right. 

She reaches for the soap, misses on the first try, which knocks the small bar past the tub and onto the floor. She swears, “Dammit,” and looks, fishing around to grasp it. It’s a tiny little thing—a one-time use pellet from a dispenser too awkward and pathetic for a first officer’s quarters. It’s still more than she had growing up. She drags it over her prickling skin, slow and even, and doesn’t cringe when she hits old, healed scars. The soap runs out in her palm before she makes it back to her shoulders, and she swirls the suds around anyway. 

Then she sits more in the now-opaque water, wondering if Odo’s ever been an octopus. If he’s ever even seen one. He hasn’t been far past Bajor, probably not to the sea, but maybe his homeworld has some form of them, something similar: don’t most? She’s aware it’s a stupid thought and lets herself pursue it anyway, because she needs something not vital in her head for once. She wonders, if she really had the power, if she might just slip out an airlock and fly away, never to be seen again. 

No, she wouldn’t. She loves Bajor too much. 

Maybe Odo loves them like that. 

He knocks when she takes too long. He could slip under the door, but doesn’t, and it’s really Odo, isn’t it? His gravelly voice is unmistakable, “Major?” _Major_ , even like this. She doesn’t answer on purpose, just so he’ll soften and shift to, “Kira?” Then, quieter: “Nerys?”

They couldn’t imitate that, she thinks. The _feeling_ in it. They’re all worse than dead inside. 

She calls back, “I’m fine.” She didn’t wash her hair, but she still adds, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

A grunt and he moves away; she can feel his weight leave the door. 

She climbs out of the tub and uses a towel like most Bajorans do, old fashioned, but these things don’t break down. She dries herself off and barely checks the mirror, and she pulls her uniform back on, because there’s no point changing into anything else—she’ll likely just be called away again. 

When she wanders back into the living room, Odo’s sitting in the middle, and his tentacles suck back inside himself so quick she barely sees them; he’s humanoid again in an instant, not an ever-shifting mess of wonderment.

She’s too tired to force a smile, so they sit on the couch until she can move again, and he wraps around her, respectfully more boyfriend than blanket.


End file.
